Punks and Cannonballers
by Beth Pryor
Summary: In between the Quine case and The Shacklewell Ripper affair, Strike takes some time to rest and recuperate and maybe even help out a fellow Arsenal fan at the same time.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Punks and Cannonballers**

**Author:** Beth Pryor

**Rating:** T (probably)

**Summary:** In between the Quine case and The Shacklewell Ripper affair, Strike takes some time to rest and recuperate and maybe even help out a fellow Arsenal fan at the same time.

**Disclaimer:** Strike and the associated characters belong to Robert Galbraith. Some of the footballers mentioned are real, but anyone who becomes an actual character is totally fictional.

**A/N:** I started this many, many years ago – after The Silkworm and before Career of Evil was released and opens in February 2011. I'm not totally sure where it's going, but I thought I'd post and see if it can find an audience. Reviews and suggestions are greatly appreciated.

* * *

**Punks and Cannonballers**

**Chapter 1**

"I'll grab that," a very female voice behind him interrupted Strike's attempt to pick up the towel he'd dropped from the bars in front of him.

"'S okay," he grunted, face red at the exertion of balancing himself on one leg and attempting to squat.

Slim fingers with short but perfectly manicured nails pulled the towel out of his reach. He grunted again as he stopped and changed directions to right himself. A tiny but muscular woman in trainers and athletic clothes bearing the name of the rehab clinic stood in front of him. She extended her arm with the towel to him. "Stubborn, aren't you?" He snatched it from her a little more forcefully than he'd intended as he rose to his full height. "And a big one." Her hand still extended, she introduced herself. "Abby Willick."

"Cormoran Strike," he managed.

She nodded toward his still bandaged right knee. "How's that coming?"

"Slowly," he lamented. He lifted the towel in a little kind of salute. "Thanks."

She nodded. "Who's your physio?"

"Robbie."

She nodded again. "He's good."

"You work here." He wasn't asking. She nodded a third time. "Are you a physio, too?"

"Yeah."

"And you're American."

"I've lived here a long time," she answered.

"Well, thanks for not acquiring an accent like Madonna."

She smiled but didn't say anything else. Strike collected the rest of his things and turned to go when her voice stopped him. "I'm about to meet a friend for a drink around the corner. Want to join us?"

Strike eyed her cautiously. She seemed friendly enough, and she worked around broken people all the time – a decided advantage. She was a medical professional, for goodness sake. Not likely to get queasy or pitying. He wasn't in the market for romantic entanglement, though. Especially not with this wisp of a woman, but he guessed there'd be safety in numbers. He nodded. "Okay."

"I'm going to change. Meet you out front in a bit?"

"Yeah," he managed. "I'll be the guy with one leg."

"Hilarious." She deadpanned before she turned and walked toward the women's changing room. He grabbed his crutches and found his way to the men's.

She was waiting when he emerged, his holdall slung over his left shoulder. Her short dark hair had been pulled off of her face with a plastic half-moon hair band. She'd replaced her trainers with high insulated rain boots and wore dark leggings under a long jumper that hit mid- thigh. She shrugged her shoulders into the parka she'd slung across her chair while she was waiting.

"Ready then?"

He nodded. He'd taken a bit of time off of work following the requisite surgery on his knee ligaments. It didn't do very well to trail cheating husbands while hopping along on crutches. His assistant and detective trainee Robin was holding down the fort, answering phones and sorting messages. She'd just finished a surveillance course he'd gifted her for Christmas, so she was happy to fill in while he sorted his health and mobility. They reckoned it'd be two or three more weeks before he'd be safe to start again with the prosthesis.

He hadn't planned to go anywhere but the rehab center and the Tube station taking him back home, so he'd worn trainers and tracksuit pants with a wool sweater. Seeing her more formal clothing, he realized he might be underdressed. She seemed to take no notice and started toward the door.

"Who'd you say you were meeting?" He asked as a blast of cold air hit them upon exiting into the street.

"My boyfriend."

Strike instantly relaxed. "Oh."

"He's a bit famous."

"Oh?"

"I usually like to warn people before so they don't totally put their foot in their mouth, but seeing as you only have one, I kind of wanted to see you try."

Strike laughed, surprising himself a little before he asked. "Who is he?"

"Liam Jones. He was…"

"Left back for Arsenal. Yeah. I know who he is." Strike followed the Gunners religiously. He knew the story. Most everyone in London as well as anyone who followed football did, really. "How's he getting on?"

"Okay. He doesn't like to leave the house much. He gets recognized some, so he's grown his hair out and things." She shrugged. "Don't ask why I invited you to have lunch with him, just had a feeling you might hit it off."

"Did you meet him at work," Strike asked, meaning the rehabilitation center they'd just left. Strike had been unable to refuse his brother Al's offer for treatment there. The military's rehab facilities were now split between Queen Mary's in Roehampton and a new branch out in Surrey. But this place was a few Tube stops away from his flat and office. He'd let the VWS foot the bill for the surgery and initial recovery at Selly Oak, but to get him back on his feet, so to speak, this time he'd reluctantly accepted his brother's (and likely his father's) offer. He'd read the information on the rehab center's website. It was a FIFA-approved facility. In fact, he'd seen a handful of footballers and rugby players in the treatment and changing rooms. Liam Jones could have easily been one of them a few months earlier.

"No." She shook her head. "That'd be against the rules." She shifted her bag on her shoulder. "I've known him a long time. We'd actually dated a couple of years ago. After last year we reconnected. It got more serious than last time, I guess." Her phone vibrated in her pocket; she glanced at the screen. "He's there."

A few minutes later they stopped in front of a pub. Even though this was the route he normally took to and from the Oxford Circus Tube station if he chose that one instead of Bond Street, he'd never stopped in The Phoenix. They pushed through the door and Abby headed immediately toward the back corner. Strike followed her, lagging a few steps behind. They stopped at a table where a handsome but wan young man sat waiting for them.

"Lee, this is Cormoran Strike. He's been getting treatment at the center. Didn't have any plans for lunch so I roped him into joining us, if you don't mind."

The younger man pushed back a few inches from the table. "Good to meet you, Cormoran." He motioned toward the wheels of the chair in which he sat before sticking out a hand. "Sorry if I don't get up."

Strike slumped into the chair beside him and untangled from the crutches before he took Liam's hand. "No problem."

Abby took the seat across from Strike and to the right of Liam. He looked over at her then back to Strike. "She's always fancied the Island of Misfit Toys."

"Liam!" Abby admonished. "Don't be such an ass."

Strike understood the other man's sour disposition. He also hated to be on display in public. Thankfully, in a few months his knee would heal and he'd be back to the prosthesis full time, whereas he knew Liam wouldn't be ridding himself of the chair. Still, Strike was surprised at his lashing out at Abby.

"Sorry," he managed. He glanced over toward her and put a hand on the one of hers on the table top. He looked back to Strike. "Sorry. That wasn't called for."

"I'll not hold it against you," shrugged Strike.

Liam allowed himself a little smile. "Thanks. I'm still not great company."

"I've not really been for a while, either," Strike revealed. "Even on two legs."

Liam smirked again. "That's good to know." He nodded toward the crutches. "What's your story? If you want to tell, I mean."

"Afghanistan, originally. Knackered my knee a few months ago, then worse a few weeks ago." shrugged Strike. He nodded toward Liam. "I already know yours."

"That is the only good thing about it all. I don't have to explain. Everybody's read it in the bloody papers," lamented Liam.

"Then let's not talk about it," Strike suggested.

Liam nodded for a second before something clicked in his head. He looked up, eyes suddenly sharp. "Wait. You're Al and Eddie Rokeby's brother, right?"

Strike nodded. "That's right." He expected they'd run in the same circles at some point in life. "And you have a younger brother, too. Ben."

Liam nodded. "He just moved to Chelsea in the transfer window."

"From Sunderland." Strike had read this a couple of days ago. "Quite a difference, I'd imagine."

Liam nodded again and smiled, although it wasn't a totally pleasant expression before he turned his attention to his left thumbnail. "He's no Fernando Torres, but he's running with the big boys now." He picked at the nail for a few seconds before seeming to remember that Strike was beside him. "And you're a detective, yeah?" He'd had plenty of time to read the papers since the previous Christmas. He'd kept up on the Lula Landry case during the spring, just like most of London.

"When I'm a bit more mobile," decided Strike with a nod. He didn't want to draw attention to himself and the relative temporary nature of his current injury.

"Yeah. That's the case, isn't it?" He glanced toward Abby. "Abs is trying to get me back into the swing of things." He shook his head a little. "It's pretty slow going."

"Any advice?" Abby piped from across the table, eyes expectantly fixed on Strike.

Ah. She'd revealed the real reason for the invite, whether on purpose or not. Strike shrugged. "Being broke's an advantage. Have to do something to keep from sleeping rough." They both had very famous fathers. The difference was, Strike had met his twice. And he assumed that Liam's, a former Chelsea and England star, was infinitely more involved in his eldest son's life and recovery.

Liam chuckled, finally appearing to relax a little. "Yeah, I don't exactly have that going for me."

Strike shrugged. "Well, we can't all be so lucky as I am."

Liam smiled, genuinely now and turned toward Abby. "I like him."

She grinned, a little twinkle in her eye. "I had a feeling." She stood. "I'll grab drinks and some menus." She took about 10 steps away from them before she turned back. "What'll you have?" She asked Strike.

"Doom Bar."

She nodded and returned with three menus and a pint for Strike and Liam. She deposited them and headed back to the bar for her own. "I'm a shit waitress," she confessed, "but I'll put the order in."

Strike chose fish and chips, Liam a steak sandwich and Abby a Caesar salad. They worked on their pints while they waited before Abby excused herself for the ladies' room. As she'd just been in the changing room at the rehab center, Strike had to think it was to give the two of them time alone to talk.

After a brief moment of silence, Liam spoke. "Listen, I don't mean to impose, but no one else I know understands this. Not even Abby, not really." He paused and looked down at his glass. "I don't mean to take up a lot of your time, but maybe we could grab a drink another time or something?"

Strike blinked a couple of times before he nodded. "Yeah. Sure." He sat in shock. What in the world could he offer this kid, other than a shared sob story? But, yeah. He could certainly do that.

"I don't really fit in at Chinawhite anymore."

Strike nodded. Liam was dealing with being normal for likely the first time in his life. Less than normal, even.

"There are other places and other people."

"People who don't look at you with eyes full of tears or pity or disgust?" He shook his head. "It's bad enough with my parents. Although, it's London, so people are interested in their own business, but if they do figure out who I am, it's almost unbearable." He shuddered. Strike imagined Liam was recalling such an encounter with an adoring fan.

"They want you to know that they care, that they've thought about you and how you got a shitty deal." He held Liam's eye contact. "How many of them would have stopped on the side of the road in the snow to help someone change a tire?"

"I'd never done anything like that in my life." He shook his head. "Why the fuck didn't I just go home?"

Strike shrugged. "It was Christmas Eve. No way to know and nothing you can ever do about it now." He knew letting something like this go was easier said than done.

"That's the thing; I don't even blame the drunk that hit me. I tried that. It didn't help." He placed his elbows on the table and leaned his head in his hands.

Strike sat silently, unmoving, unsure of what to do or say. He was certainly no psychologist or counselor. Thankfully, Abby reappeared at just that moment. Her smile disappeared when she looked at Liam.

"What?"

Liam raised his head. "Nothing. Just a pity party, but don't worry. You've been to this particular one a few times." She slid into her chair and reached for his arm. He pulled it back from the table. "I'm alright."

Strike was about to excuse himself and get the hell out of there when their food came. He'd almost forgotten that they'd ordered. He nearly shoveled the contents of the plate into his mouth. He'd meant what he'd said earlier about spending time with Liam if he wanted, but he couldn't do the self-pity and tears. The others were equally silent and focused on their own plates.

Abby inquired about a second pint for the men, but both refused. She narrowed her eyes at Strike as she turned back to her salad. Once he'd finished, Strike relieved his wallet of a 20 pound note and a business card. He handed them both to Liam and with a nod to Abby, extricated himself from the table, pub and situation.

He continued to the Oxford Circus Tube station and boarded the Central Line for one stop to Tottenham Court Road station. He still hadn't replenished his coffers sufficiently to fund cab rides every time he had to go out. And the therapy was daily now for the next couple of weeks. He had looked into getting the lift repaired in their building, but that was still a work in progress.

Robin tried not to look anxious at her desk, but you could hear him on the stairs a good five minutes before he made it into the office. He saw the sandwich pack on her desk and felt bad for not calling. She could have met them for lunch.

She looked at his face, guilt all over it. She frowned. "You've already eaten."

He dipped his head just a little. "I have. Got invited to the pub by someone at the rehab."

"Well, that's good. You need more friends." She said with a cheeky grin.

"Hm." He managed, dropping himself onto the faux leather couch, bracing for the fart noises it was bound to put forward as he sat.

"Nice people?" she asked, turning back toward the computer and the work she'd been doing prior to his arrival.

Strike shrugged. "Maybe so."

She looked up again, perplexed. "What's that mean?"

"Hard to explain, really."

He had her attention now. "Well try me," she leaned forward, chin resting on her fist.

"It was a girl who asked me, one of the physios there." Robin raised her eyebrows. "Not like that. She wanted me to meet her boyfriend."

"Why?" This story was getting more convoluted by the minute.

"The question isn't why but who."

"Well, who, then?"

"Liam Jones."

The name was pretty common. She shrugged. "Sorry. A little help?"

"He played for Arsenal. Was in that car accident a year ago on Christmas Eve when he stopped to help a stranded motorist and got hit by someone drink driving."

"Oh, yeah. I remember reading about that. Terrible." She moved her attention now to shuffling some papers on the desk. "How was that?"

"A little odd. But not awful."

"Oh, gosh. Please remind me to introduce you to people I know."

Strike glared at her. "He asked to meet up again."

"Really?"

"I mean, it will be quite the spectacle. One working leg between us."

"Oh yes, they've chosen the right person to help him get back to normal functioning," Robin nodded sarcastically.

"Exactly. I'm not nearly normal."

Robin shrugged and shook her head. "You're normal enough."

"I should have called you. You would have kept things on track."

She sat up a little straighter in her chair on what she took as a compliment. "You can eat your sandwiches there for dinner."

Strike pulled himself up and hobbled to his inner office. "Yeah. Unless I'm clubbing with footballers."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Three days later after Robin had left for the day and business hours were well over, Strike had made it up to his attic bedroom to try to rustle up something for supper. Robin had been bringing by a few groceries for him now and then to help him avoid the need for shopping while he was still partially laid up. He really wasn't sure what he'd have done without her. He sat, contemplating pasta for the fourth time in the past six days when his phone rang.

"Cormoran Strike," he answered as politely as he could muster at this time of day, hoping it wasn't a client, even though they could use the work and Robin could handle the basics.

"Strike," the voice echoed. "It's Liam Jones."

"Oh." Strike was genuinely surprised that the younger man had called.

"I'm staying at my brother's place. They're home to Liverpool tomorrow. He's gone to the hotel after training today. I thought, if you didn't have any other plans, that maybe you'd want to come over." He paused. "That sounds weird." He laughed nervously. "I'm not used to begging people to hang out with me."

Strike was about to say that Liam would get used to it, but instead he looked around his uninspired kitchenette and then at the phone in his hand. He moved it back to his ear. "Yeah. Okay. What's the address?"

"It's in Fulham. It'll be a hike from your place. Might be faster for me to come there and get you."

"I can take a cab," Strike said without thinking.

"It's okay, really. I need to get out of here for a bit." He paused again. "If you don't mind. I'm not a bad driver."

"No. It's fine." They decided on a pickup spot along Charing Cross Road, and Liam arrived about 30 minutes later, pulling up to the curb in a black Audi A7. Strike whistled as he slid into the passenger seat.

"You definitely don't have to worry about sleeping rough. You could just live in this thing."

Liam blushed a little. "I needed a car. You know, wheelchairs, London, rain and all that. I had to get an automatic for the hand controls, and I wanted something that didn't make me feel so damn crippled."

Strike understood that and felt bad for calling the younger man out on his extravagant auto. This kid had been knocked down quite significantly from his former place in life, and rather than helping, Strike had made him feel bad about driving a nice car.

"It's really sleek," he tried to recover. "I wish I could manage something like this."

"I saved a lot when I was playing. Lived at home for a while, didn't have a car for a couple of years, that sort of stuff."

"Smart thinking," Strike nodded, although the kid had been making around 50,000 pounds a week at the time of his injury. Strike might see that this year. Gross.

They drove across the city to SW6 in silence before pulling though an ivy-covered gate that closed automatically behind them.

"My brother, on the other hand," Liam shrugged as they came into the condo, entering through a thoroughly modern kitchen. "It's a bit over the top, but he's 20 and is making twenty thousand a week." He picked up four rectangular pieces of cardstock from a large Lucite dining table and held them up toward Strike. "He left a couple of match tickets for tomorrow. Abby's gonna come. You can have the other two if you'd like." He replaced them on the granite countertop behind him. "Arsenal's at Newcastle, so…" he trailed off. Strike followed him from the kitchen into the main living area. "Make yourself at home."

Strike took a seat on an oversized chair and Liam turned on a giant flat screen TV across the room from them. The volume was low, but much like the other younger men Strike had interacted with and interviewed over the past couple of years, Liam seemed to relax in the glow of the ever-present flicker of the picture. In the large, decently-lit room, Strike finally sized up his companion. He recalled that when part of Arsenal's back four, Liam stood just over six feet in height. He appeared to have lost weight, more than a stone since the year previous. As Abby had mentioned earlier, his dark chestnut hair fell into his eyes, alarmingly unlike the cropped crew cut he'd always worn before. Strike wouldn't have recognized him on the street.

"Liam?" someone called from the kitchen.

Strike turned and Liam rolled back across the room. He re-emerged from the kitchen with his easily recognizable father right behind. Strike started to stand.

The older man stopped him. "No, no. Don't get up. Cormoran Strike, is it?" They'd obviously talked in the kitchen. He shook hands with Strike. "Callum Jones." He glanced around the room. "Did Ben talk to Gary before he did all of this?" he finally asked his elder son.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

He shrugged. "Well, Mum sent lasagna."

"Tell her thanks."

"You'll be at the match tomorrow?"

"I think so."

"Good. Ben will be pleased to have you there. We'll see you then. Don't want to interrupt any further. I'm off." He waved toward Strike. "Good to meet you, Cormoran."

Liam returned a minute later. "Sorry about that. But at least there's lasagna. Mom's a pretty good cook."

"They check up a lot?"

"Yeah." He pushed back his sleeves so Strike could see little white vertical scars ascending both wrists. "They're afraid I'll try that again." He looked up to see Strike's darkened expression. "I won't, though."

Strike unknowingly waded in further and further. He might already be in over his head. He swallowed and looked around the room.

"Shit. I haven't even offered you a drink or anything." He pointed to a full bar at the corner of the room. "Grab whatever you like. I'll warm up some food." Strike reached for the crutches and Liam blushed, realizing the other man wouldn't be able to carry bottles. "Right. I'll get that." He plopped four bottles of beer on his lap and headed back to the kitchen. His mother had sent the lasagna in an insulated carrier, so it was still warm. Liam found some plates and flatware and met him at the table.

"This is good," Strike noted after a couple of bites.

"She was home a lot when we were little kids, but as we got older and busier, she worked more. She always tried to cook us a good meal once a week, though. Usually on Thursdays, for whatever reason."

Strike seemed to remember that she was an American model and actress whose career had blossomed early in her life. She'd quit films to study at some Ivy League school before taking a break to do a West End production. She and Liam's father had met at a nightclub and became an instant item. The children had come in quick succession, keeping the family in the Society Pages for years. Although, that didn't fascinate him as much as Callum Jones' knack for dismantling Arsenal's defensive scheme did. Even when Chelsea proved a lousy side in the league, Jones seemed to always find a way to score against the Gunners. It seemed fitting that he'd hung on until the age of 38 for Chelsea's first Premier League Championship in 2005.

"My sister Lily is in Chicago." Liam had kept talking about his family. "She works in finance or banking or something like that. Then Maureen, she's between Lily and Ben, is doing the Peace Corps in Thailand."

"So there's the four of you?" Strike clarified, making sure he hasn't missed anyone else.

"Yeah. The girls always wanted to go to school and travel like Mom had done, and we boys just wanted to play football like Dad." He pushed a ribbon of pasta from one edge of the plate to the other. "Didn't think too much about what would happen if that wasn't possible."

"You could go back to school."

He nearly glared at Strike. "Oxford isn't an option for everyone." Liam had obviously done some Googling of his own in the past couple of days.

"That's not the only school."

"I take way more after my dad than my mom in that respect."

"So travel. Get away from here for a while. Your mom's American; so is Abby. And your sister lives in Chicago. Why not go there for a while?" Strike had no idea what had suddenly empowered him to suggest a plan for the younger man's life.

"Yeah. I thought about it. My mom mentioned it, too. But what would I do there? Same thing as here. Nothing."

"What do you want to do?"

"Play football."

"Well that isn't going to happen, Liam. And the sooner you get your head wrapped around that the better." Strike pulled out a cigarette. Liam didn't protest when he moved to light it. "If you really want to get on with your life, pick something to do and start doing it." He stood. "I don't know what else to tell you other than that." He started toward the door. "I should go."

Liam swiveled the chair to block him. "No, wait."

"I can't blow smoke up your ass, Liam." Strike began.

"Couldn't feel it even if you did," he pointed out, interrupting what was inevitably going to be some sort of tirade. "I'm sorry." He sighed. "This is exactly why I need this, Cormoran."

Strike swayed a bit with between the crutches. "Still. I should go."

Liam made another move toward the door. "I'll drive. It'll take forever for a cab."

"I'll manage." Strike's voice came out a little colder than he intended.

Liam didn't seem to notice. "No. Seriously. Let me. And I'll pick you up in the morning. It's on my way." Apparently he was used to having people do things he suggested of them.

"It's not," Strike insisted.

"It's on _a_ way."

"You'd have to double back." Apparently these people pissed petrol as well.

"Abby texted a bit earlier. I may stay at her place tonight."

"Where's her place?" As if it was any of his business.

"Islington."

That made a little more sense, but Denmark Street still wasn't on the most direct route back to Fulham Road. "You going there soon?"

"After I eat and get some things together."

"Thought you were supposed to stay here since your brother was gone."

Liam shrugged. "It's fine."

Strike couldn't imagine Lucy asking him to watch anything of hers. Besides, it was again no business of his whether or not Liam spent the night with his girlfriend or at his brother's tricked out condo. He also couldn't technically afford a cab and wasn't completely sure where the closest Tube station that would get him home in a reasonable amount of time would be.

"D'you want the fourth ticket?" Liam asked a bit later as he dropped Strike off along Charing Cross Road.

"I'm not sure I want the third one."

Liam grinned. "I know you want to go, though. Emirates next time, yeah?"

Strike nodded. He really did want to go – both tomorrow hopefully to see Liverpool demolish Chelsea and any title hopes they might have and later to watch Arsenal at the Emirates.

"But just to be clear, I'm not throwing any celery."

Liam laughed. "It's not allowed anymore. But somehow I think you know that."

Strike smiled a little this time. He shut the door behind him and made a hand gesture that was somewhere between a wave and a finger gun toward the younger man. He waited until Liam had driven a block away before he shook his head and turned down Denmark Street toward his place. After he'd finished in the bathroom and with the ice and strapping on his right knee, he plopped down on his bed, setting an alarm for the morning.

* * *

Less than 10 hours later, he found himself standing in the same spot on Charing Cross Road and folded himself and his crutches into the same sporty car.

"People are going to think you're working this corner," Liam greeted instead of hello.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he grumbled before he noticed Abby in the backseat. His face flushed as he acknowledged her. "Morning."

She grinned in the rearview mirror. "Cormoran, glad you could make it."

"Yeah."

She handed him a coffee over his right shoulder. "Liam doesn't do personal boundaries very well. I think it's the celebrity of his parents or something, because it seems like everyone else here has figured out when to leave people alone."

"That's not totally true," Liam protested. The other two glared at him. "Okay, maybe mostly true."

"We still have a ticket left," Abby pointed out as they drove across London. "No one you know of who'd use it?"

"I don't actually know anyone who's a Chelsea fan. The fact that they're playing Liverpool might help, though." He realized they had no other options, and he might not mind backup here. "I have a mate that might be free."

"God, yes. Call. Please." Liam encouraged. "I'm not about to be the reason for the one empty seat in the place."

Strike reached into his pocket for his mobile. He reached Nick in a few seconds and was relieved to find that the other man would be happy to join them. Strike sent regards to Ilsa and rung off.

"Wonderful!" Abby exclaimed when he announced the ticket occupied.

"We'll be in a suite with my parents."

Strike nodded. He guessed that you never really got out from under the thumb of your famous parents, if you'd ever actually been under it.

As they approached the stadium, Liam turned the car into a guarded car park. He showed the attendant some sort of card and was waved inside. He found a disabled spot with room for him to exit the car and parked.

"We can wait out front for your friend." They collected themselves and headed toward the gate. Strike had thought about pulling on the prosthesis today to avoid the stares but had ultimately decided against it. He wasn't about to accept any setback in this recovery process.

They'd been at their perch in front for about ten minutes when Nick arrived.

"Couldnt've been Spurs anytime you get these things?" he inquired as he ambled toward them, still not completely believing he was approaching Stamford Bridge of his own accord for any reason other than to cheer on Tottenham. Strike laughed as they shook hands. "And who are these children?" Nick whispered as they turned to Liam and Abby.

Strike gave his friend an exasperated look as he started the introductions. "Liam and Abby, this is Nick."

"Hi, Nick," Abby greeted gleefully. She certainly was in a good mood today.

Liam extended his hand, looking up at the older man. "Shall we?"

They followed Liam back around the car park and to a lift that took them directly to the level of the exclusive suites.

Nick looked over at Strike and whistled. Strike just shrugged. They followed Liam and Abby into the box. Callum Jones and his wife Elle Manning (Strike had finally Googled her upon arriving home last night) were both standing, as though waiting for the arrival of their eldest child. Liam accepted a hug and a kiss from his mom and a clap on the shoulder from his dad before they turned their greetings to Abby. Once that had been completed, Liam introduced the two older men.

"Cormoran, nice to see you again," Callum Jones shook his hand. "And Nick, good to meet you."

Elle's greeting was a bit cooler, no doubt wondering about the association between this large grizzled man and her handsome, well-bred son. Abby jumped in quickly to fill the chilly silence and explained their connection. Strike and Nick accepted seats and pints and prepared for the start of the game. Liam maneuvered to the front of the box so he had a full view of the action. Strike noticed how intently he followed the play, almost enthusiastically. It was only when the teams broke at the end of the half that Strike watched his expression turn melancholic. Thankfully, Nick had engaged both Abby and Mrs. Jones in conversation while Callum had moved one box over to meet up with some previous teammates. Strike slid down a seat beside him.

"Everything alright?"

Liam shot him a look of disdain. Obviously it wasn't, but the younger man deflected. "Ashley Cole is otherworldly. No wonder I can barely get an England cap, and when I do it's on the right. The way he moves play forward, it's just crazy. They don't want me doing that at Arsenal, though, because of Emmanuel and Theo on the right. I need to stay back." He stopped and shook his head. "Needed. Past tense. All of it. You know what I mean."

Strike nodded. "Yeah."

"I can't lose it here, though. Not in front of my Mom." He looked over toward where she still sat with Abby and Nick, a waiter taking new drink orders. "This is supposed to be about Ben, anyway. Not me."

"Doubt he'll get in today, though. It's bound to be close."

Liam shrugged. "He might get a few minutes at the end to try to inject some pace."

Nick dropped down beside them, a new pint for Strike. "Not so bad, Oggy. We don't usually get the box at White Heart Lane."

Strike laughed, a fully round, real laugh. "We have to spend more time with the actual footballers to get digs like this."

Liam blushed. "Glad you're having a good time. Both of you." He turned. "I'm gonna get some air. I'll be back."

The second half started a few minutes later, and they all sat, transfixed as Liverpool took the lead about halfway through and never relinquished control of the game, the substitution of the younger Jones brother at 75 minutes notwithstanding. When the final whistle blew, Strike turned around to find their area completely filled with Chelsea alumni and various London celebs. Instead of exiting back to the car park, they were swallowed by the crowd of people that flowed into the players lounge.

They'd barely made it into the room when a few of the players arrived. Ben Jones made a beeline for his brother, the resemblance between the two of them wasn't lost on Strike or anyone else in the room. The surrounding din decreased ever so slightly as most eyes in the room trained on them but then increased back to baseline as more players trickled in.

Despite the influx of celebrities, Strike found himself acutely aware of a conversation taking place in the far corner of the room between John Cantrell, former Chelsea but current Liverpool midfielder and a woman of about 30. Their body language initially implied a close relationship, but the more they talked, the more animosity they expressed. Finally, throwing his hands down in frustration, Cantrell sighed, shook his head and reached toward the woman. She rolled her eyes, and in a gesture of submission, leaned into him. They hugged quickly and he was gone, shaking a few hands on his way out the door. The woman smoothed her overcoat and moved to take a glass of white wine from the bar. After she'd downed about half of it, she caught sight of the elder Joneses and approached.

Strike continued to watch in stunned silence as Elle Manning and then Callum Jones embraced her warmly. She spoke briefly with both of them before moving to the boys and Abby. She kissed each of Ben's cheeks before grabbing Abby's hands and taking a seat to the right of Liam, offering him a quick hug. Nick nudged Strike to a seat on the other side of Abby. He couldn't quite hear the conversation but made out the words "Didn't even bother to send a text. And when I have the day off, I definitely want to spend it at the stadium."

At the conclusion of this, Abby turned to introduce Strike and Nick to Elizabeth Cantrell, ex-wife of the aforementioned midfielder. They all nodded politely toward one another.

"What are you doing here?" Liam asked. "Not because of him?"

She cut that down quickly. "No." Then she backed off a bit. "Well, not technically. Carrie was supposed to be here with the boys, but the baby had a cold." She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. "They were supposed to come down last evening but put it off until today, and you know she had to know hours ago that she wasn't coming." She looked up, acutely aware of her surroundings and near whining tone. "Anyway. I thought they were going to be here today. Otherwise I don't usually choose to spend Saturdays when the Gunners are away at the Bridge." She looked toward Strike and Nick, realizing they weren't in on the whole story and appeared to be of her generation. "Co-parenting. Always a joy."

The two men, neither of whom had such experience, nodded politely if not knowingly. Strike leaned across to Abby. "Nick and I are going to go."

"Already?"

He nodded. "I agreed to a football match, not this."

"Okay," she faux-pouted. "I'll walk you out."

"We'll find our way," Strike assured her, nudging her toward Liam, whose pallor increased the longer they lingered in the lounge. "Get him sorted."

Nick stood first and shielded Strike slightly from the rest of the room as he rose, collected his crutches and traversed the room. Once they hit the lift, Nick spoke.

"You gonna tell me the story behind this?" Strike nodded, and Nick continued. "Good, because Ilsa's gonna want to hear this, too. You're coming over." Strike nodded again and followed Nick to the Tube station.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I did have another chapter of this pretty much written, so why not post it. I'm not sure how much there will be after this for now - it's just not written yet, and I'm not sure where it's going. I also realized I wanted to change a previous name from Campbell to Cantrell to avoid confusion with Charlotte - I'll fix that now as well. Also, the football match that was supposed to be on Saturday actually occurred on Sunday, Feb 6, 2011. Not sure how I missed that. Also, the more I read over this the more I see the mixed English/British phrasing. But it is what it is - not a masterpiece by any means.

I hope you'll read and enjoy, nonetheless! bp

* * *

Chapter 3

A few hours and a couple more beers later, Nick and Ilsa had heard the entire story.

"So now you're hanging out with Al and Eddie's crew?" Ilsa had asked, barely keeping her face neutral.

"I don't know. It just sort of happened. And it doesn't have anything to do with Rokeby." Strike wiped a hairy forearm across his face. "I'm not quite as old as I look."

Nick came to his defense. "It's not so bad, Oggy. They seemed nice enough."

"I really only know the boy, Liam, and his girlfriend Abby a little. The others I'd never even met before." He shrugged. "I understand what's happening to him."

Ilsa placed her hand on his shoulder as she rose to check on a roast in the oven. "I'm sure he really appreciates any advice or wisdom you can give." She reappeared a moment or two later. "I still think you should stay for a while."

"And be underfoot all the time? I think not," Strike scoffed.

She kept eye contact with him until she peeked at the timer and through the door of the cooker. "Corm, you know neither of us would see it like that, and you're always welcome."

"I do, but I've got my place and my routine."

"Sure, fine." She agreed, then slipped in her own directive to the conversation as she rejoined the men in the sitting room. "Seeing anyone?"

Strike felt himself flushing a little. "Not since Nina, and that wasn't really, um, healthy."

"Looking?" she probed.

"Not so much."

"Well. Why not?"

"You trying to find me a Valentine, Ilsa?"

"I'm not doing anything for you, especially try to find you a date," she grinned. "You're far too set in your ways."

"I'm glad someone's bloody well noticed. Can you pass the memo on to Lucy?"

Nick guffawed as a timer sounded. Ilsa jumped up to silence it.

"Dinner in 15," she called as she disappeared again into the kitchen.

"You'll stay tonight, though. Yeah?"

Strike nodded, accepting Nick's invitation to get pissed and sleep on their couch. "For tonight." He stood, crutches at his side. "Gotta go before dinner."

Strike made his way home around noon the next day. He needed a shower and some time to decompress on his own turf. Without a major case taking up his time, his mind drifted, as it had much less often these days, to Charlotte. Or, more correctly, she was now The Viscountess of Croy. His chest didn't constrict so completely at the thought or mention of her since the day of the wedding photo email or the actual text on the wedding day. Frankly, he'd been much too busy living his own life, provincial as it was. He'd solved the murder of Owen Quine and had cleared the name of his client, the author's wife Lenora, prior to agreeing finally to the medical treatment necessary to keep his right knee in working order for the use of his prosthesis.

He reflected on how smoothly life without her seemed to be flowing. It wasn't as though there hadn't been bumps in the road, but business had never been better. In fact, the beginning of the case that had changed his professional life coincided exactly with the morning after he'd left her. Coincidence? He'd originally chalked it up to that, but the more he ruminated on the goings-on, the more he realized that the two events were definitely linked. Perhaps not caused by one another, but they were correlated, nonetheless. As was his continued success unhampered by her constant nagging about his professional life. While his 2.5 rooms and the office space below may not be success by her standards, his strides toward financial independence and moving from under the thumb of his own famous father counted as success in his book.

As such, he'd firmly shut the book on romance for now. Ilsa worried, as did his sister Lucy, that he'd not achieve life-long partnership, children, suburban living and all that. Frankly, he didn't want it. The idea of raising children made him physically ill. Charlotte had agreed with him on that, although now she was gleefully fulfilling the role of step-mummy to the Ross children. Allegedly. He wasn't sure what was truth anymore – the version she'd fed him or what the magazines now reported about her life. He assumed somewhere in between.

When he exited the bathroom, he found a voicemail on his phone from his assistant Robin. Still not married to fiancé Matthew, the titian-headed Yorkshire woman had inquired as to whether or not he was in need of the replenishing of his groceries. She was headed out to the shops herself but would come in closer to him if he needed provisions as well. He glanced over at the shelves. There were a couple of things he needed, but realistically he didn't need her coming all the way to Soho for his shopping. He sent a text back saying that he'd be fine. She responded that she was already on the way and that she'd be there in twenty minutes. He was dressed but still tidying up when she arrived.

"Did you just get in?" She asked looking around and taking in his laundry bag in the corner and his still wet hair. "Sorry. Not my business," she blushed. She'd only been invited into his home following the surgery and then only at her extreme insistence and his complete inability to manage his shopping.

"I stayed with Nick and Ilsa last night."

She grabbed his shopping bags from the hook behind the door. "D'you know what you need?"

"I made a bit of a list." He handed it to her.

"Are you going to take your laundry?"

He nodded. "I should."

"We'll do both."

"What's Matthew up to today?"

Robin's ears warmed on each side of her ponytail. "He's working."

Strike let that drop. "I'm ready." He pulled the bag of clothes over his shoulder and took the crutches.

"You good with that?" Robin asked, a bit of a pinched expression crossing her face.

"I'll be okay." He moved to lock the door behind her. "You can't carry that and the other bags, too."

They dropped his things at a nearby laundrette for a service wash and continued toward the markets he utilized most often.

"We could have done this tomorrow, you know," he pointed out as they grabbed some vegetables. "It's not like we've been SO busy."

"It's fine," she clipped her phrase and her heels as she turned away. "I'll find some sausages."

Strike groaned inwardly. He was definitely a distraction from whatever was going on between Robin and Matthew today. Without trying, he'd placed himself squarely in the middle of that. He made a mental note not to mention the fiancé for the rest of the afternoon. He looked up for Robin, but she was already gone. He sighed and started off after her.

When they finished, she suggested they loop back by Denmark Street to drop off his purchases before they grabbed a bite since his laundry wasn't yet completed. She also insisted he wait at the bottom of the three flights of stairs. She'd take care of the bags and the perishables. He reluctantly agreed, hoping there was nothing truly foul in his fridge. She didn't give him much time to worry, though, as she rejoined him on the street less than 10 minutes later. She continued in a huff toward the Tottenham. He really didn't have any recourse but to follow her.

"You want a pint? I'm buying." She asked as he slid onto a bench.

"Just coffee." He'd honestly contemplated curtailing his drinking again over the course of the morning, if for no other reason than a financial one.

She retreated to the counter and returned a bit later with a cup filled with steaming liquid for him and a white wine for herself. He nodded his approval.

"I nearly had to brew it myself," she revealed, sounding a bit exasperated.

"It's good," Strike affirmed.

"How are Nick and Ilsa?"

"They're well. Nick went to the football with me yesterday afternoon."

"Arsenal were away," she blurted.

Strike narrowed his eyes at her. She was not much of a football fan, as such. "They were. We went to see Liverpool at Chelsea."

She sipped her wine. "That makes no sense."

Strike chuckled. "No. It doesn't. But Liam Jones invited me. Well, us, actually. His brother plays at Chelsea now."

"And Nick went of his own accord?"

"We went to support Liverpool, in that we both wanted them to beat Chelsea. And they did." He lifted his cup to her.

She laughed, clinking her glass against it. "Well. There's always that."

"There is." He shifted the conversation without thinking. "How's your weekend been?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Matthew had rugby yesterday and he's working today, so I've basically fended for myself. I decided today would be a better day for shopping than yesterday, as I was at the rugby pitch all afternoon."

Strike realized she had no bags. Everything she'd been carrying had been deposited in his flat. "Did you actually do any shopping, though?"

Robin's face flushed a deep crimson. "No. I guess I forgot when we were picking up your things."

"We can get my laundry tomorrow, and you should take care of your own shopping before it gets too late."

"That might be best."

He didn't wish to discuss Matthew, and there was really nothing pressing going on at the office. He found himself content to sit silently, his mind drifting back to Liam and the preceding days.

Her voice cut into his thoughts. "How's the knee coming along?"

"Hm? Oh. Should be up and running, so to speak, in a fortnight or so."

"That soon?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I head over to Majorca to give you a bit more time running the show, then?"

She snorted. "I'd pay to see that."

"You'd be the only one."

Robin drained her wineglass. "I should be getting on."

Strike levered to standing and she handed over his sticks. "Thanks for the coffee. And the shopping."

She waved him off. "Not a problem. See you in the morning."

"See you then."

Strike headed down the street toward his place. He wanted to tidy up the office and grab a nap before he watched the evening match on Sky and made the schedule for the upcoming week.

TBC at some point...


End file.
